


Minor Charges

by rebel_diamond



Series: Alias [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Showdown 2018, Woven Lace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:13:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_diamond/pseuds/rebel_diamond
Summary: Weaver takes a young punk into custody.*Winner of the 2018 Rumbelle Prompt Showdown* Written under the pen name Deshelved. Story entries for Rounds 1-5, plus sequels.





	Minor Charges

**Author's Note:**

> Round 2 prompts: I’m telling; just this once; I can’t do this.

Weaver was returning from delivering a marmalade sandwich to Tilly when he saw him. It was technically Weaver’s day off, so he could have kept walking and continue on to Roni’s. But the kid was so atrociously bad at what he was doing, he was making it impossible for Weaver to ignore him. The boy was crouched in front of the public library, fiddling with the locked front doors. He had the hood of his sweatshirt up even though it was the middle of the afternoon. The kid looked around to check if the coast was clear yet failed to see Weaver standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. He had a bookbag beside him, probably filled with spray cans. Most likely this was an initiation to gain membership into one of the youth gangs.

Weaver had no intention of chasing this delinquent down the street, he’d rather save himself the paperwork by acting now. The kid was intent on picking the lock, so Weaver ducked behind some parked cars and approached him from behind. The boy had a Swiss Army knife and was jamming the hook disgorger into the lock and wiggling it around without finesse. Weaver bent over his shoulder, “You want to use the tweezers and the toothpick.” The kid froze and before he could take off, Weaver grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt, stood him up and spun him around, yanking the hoodie off his face. His other hand clamped around the boy’s wrist and squeezed. The boy, barely in his teens, flinched hard and dropped the knife.

Weaver kicked the weapon out of range and pulled his badge out of his jacket pocket, “What’s your name, boy?” Weaver felt him literally quake under the hand that clutched his shoulder. “We could do this here or at the station and I’m telling you it’ll be easier here.” The kid was so catatonic with fear he swayed on his feet. “Fine, station it is, let’s go,” Weaver shoved him down the sidewalk, scooping up the punk’s bookbag and knife as they went.

The kid walked the two blocks to police headquarters staring off into the distance in complete silence. “Sit,” Weaver pushed him into the wooden chair outside his office. The kid unzipped his sweatshirt, revealing a preppy collared shirt underneath. Geeky wardrobe for a prospective criminal. No wonder he was trying to get in with the cool crowd.  

Weaver leaned on a desk and crossed his arms, “What were you doing outside the library?” The kid hung his head and swallowed hard but said nothing. Weaver wasn’t unschooled in uncooperative teens. Given enough time and energy, he’d make him talk. And give up his little friends who put him up to it too. 

There was a commotion at the front of the station and in strode Lacey, looking like a commotion herself in a miniscule black dress and red leather jacket. She dashed straight past the drunks getting booked and the office secretary who called after her and headed directly for his office. He did not need this right now, he was about to lay into this hoodlum. If she was in the midst of another crisis, it would have to wait. Weaver met her halfway, holding up his hands when she tried to get around him, “Not now, Lacey.”

“Yes, now,” she demanded.  

He sighed and caught the eye of the first unoccupied officer he saw, “I’m escorting Miss French out of the building.” He pointed to the dejected boy sitting outside his office, “Search the kid’s bookbag for ID and call his mother.”

“I AM his mother!” she snapped, pushing past Weaver and squatting at the feet of her son. “Are you alright?” she asked softly and swept his hair off his forehead, inspected him like she was looking for injuries.

Next to each other, there was no denying they were mother and son. They shared the same auburn hair, thin upper lip, and eye shape. But there was someone else present as well in the boy’s dark brown eyes, sharper nose, thicker eyebrows, bigger ears, and the slight curl at the ends of his hair that his mother lacked.

Now that she was stooped down, Weaver could see a gray section emerging from Lacey’s roots that she’d been covering with dye but was starting to grow out he’d never noticed before. It suggested her age whereas nothing else about Lacey suggested responsibility or motherhood. For a long moment Weaver was fixated on what it would look like if she allowed it to grow out into one long streak and how much he’d like to wrap his fingers around it.

She rose, her entire body taught with outrage, “What happened? I got a call saying they saw my son getting hauled in by a cop.”

Weaver forced away any warm thoughts of Lacey, since they only made him fuzzy. She wasn’t a fantasy. Right now she was the mother of a hooligan. “I caught him breaking into the library. Getting the boy involved in the family business?”

“My son would do no such thing!” He’d seen a lot of Lacey over the years, including bar fights and petty crime. He’d seen her indignant, drunk, blasé, flirtatious, and violent. But he’d never witnessed her with this particular fire in her eyes. It was protective, with a little bit of fear and a lot of worry. Lacey the tipsy pool hall girl he knew well. This new Lacey, this…mother, this other person that was shining through, he didn’t know how to deal with. She extended her hand to her son, “Come on, we’re going home.” The boy looked wary but put his hands on the armrests.

“He’s not released,” Weaver growled. The kid didn’t move from his chair.

She gaped, “You’re going to lock up a twelve year old boy?”

“I need to contact the library and see if they want to press charges.”

The boy’s head snapped up at that. If the kid was despondent before, he was devastated now.

“They won’t press charges, they know him. He’s a good kid,” Lacey insisted.  

“Then what’s he doing sittin’ in my precinct?” he scoffed. His eyes narrowed, “And where do you think he learned such criminal behavior?”

She glared right back, “You’ve got some nerve talking about criminal behavior…Detective,” she spat. “Look at you, playing the perfect cop. You think I don’t know about you, about what you do, how you…”

“The book drop was locked!” the boy blurted out.

“What?” they both exclaimed in unison so it sounded like a yell and the boy recoiled.

He slowly reached into the bookbag at his feet drawing out a tomb that made a thunk when he placed it on the desk. Based on the cover it was some fantasy novel.

The story came tumbling out, “I stayed up all night to finish it. It was due yesterday but the library was closed and the outside book drop was locked!” He looked at Weaver, “It’s supposed to be unlocked after hours,” he pleaded. “If it’s not in the book drop by the time the library opens, we’ll get fined and we don’t have the money…” he trailed off, looking at the floor.

“Oh, Gid,” Lacey knelt down again in front of her son, his eyes watering. “Gideon,” she pronounced so he’d look at her, “I worry about money, you don’t. I’ll pay all the late fees in the world for you. I’ve always taken care of us and I would have taken care of this.” The boy was crying in earnest now and Lacey pulled him into a tight hug. “Come on,” they broke apart and she held out her hand to Gideon again.

Gideon looked to Weaver, who leveled a finger at him, “Just this once.”

The boy nodded obediently and stood. He was already taller than his mother.

“Lacey,” Weaver spoke as they brushed past him.

“Meet you outside,” she told Gideon before turning to Weaver. “Just because I’m a fuckup doesn’t mean that’s what I want for him. I do what I can for him because I want better for him. I can and will do better for him,” her voice broke at the end. Tears had sprung to her eyes and she gave him a watery smile, “I just realized I can’t do this. I can’t always protect him.”

Weaver had seen too much to argue with that. “Where’s the boy’s father?” he probed.  

She wiped her eyes, "Not in the picture.”

“What kind of crowd is the kid caught up in?” Weaver offered.  

“No crowd. He reads!” They both snickered. “He’s smarter than I am.”

“I doubt that.” She looked up at him, eyes searching. Weaver cleared his throat, “Just keep him out of my precinct.” Then added, “Both of you stay out.”  

She laughed as she turned to leave, looking back over her shoulder, a glint in her eye, “Now we both know that’s not really what you want.”


End file.
